Izzy is now in second grade and I quickly became known as the mom that does not fuck around. This came on the heels of multiple lice outbreaks (more on that later) and how, three years in a row…give me a minute so I can breathe deep and not call anyone names…how three years in a row my daughter went missing on the first day of school on the return bus trip home.

But I digress…

What I will complain about – because it couldn’t truly be called a day, in which the sun rose and set, if I did not complain about something – is last minute requests from daycare for party contributions.

You guys. They range in ages from 6 weeks to 4 years old. They don’t even know what day it is much less that there is a fake holiday looming over them!

None the less, I was asked to provide a Valentine-themed cookie for the Valentine party for the kids that would sooner send a Valentine to their favorite woobie than they would each other. And I was asked to provide this without much notice.

So this is my “You’re lucky I put in this much effort – A Valentine Cookie recipe”

First, go buy some cookies. I bought these oreos because they were on an endcap at the Food Lion near my work. I was shopping on my lunch break. BECAUSE I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS BULLSHIT AND I HAVE TO DO ALL OF MY SHOPPING ON MY FUCKING LUNCH BREAK.

Get a tube of this spray cheese icing.

Pop the top and spray a bunch of it in your mouth.

Then squeeze a bunch of this stuff on top of each Oreo. I would encourage you to make a farting noise while you do this. It will help you forget that everyone else in the house is tucked into bed and sawing fucking logs while you are awake, wondering why you gave up weekday drinking, and decorating cookies with what might as well be arsenic and rocket fuel.

Let them sit out overnight to let the icing harden. Hopefully the cat will jump up on the counter in the middle of the night and lick a few. If you are really lucky, she will sprinkle them with some cat hair.

If you want to be fancy, you can call these Oreo Roses. If you want to get real, you will call them ‘Bullshit parties suck and make extra work for moms the world over now shut the fuck up and eat them’ cookies.

I’ve been tiptoeing around the edges of this blog for a while now. I brainstorm nearly every day with friends about topics and project ideas. I have draft upon draft sitting in a folder, stories waiting to be told but becoming less relevant with the passage of time.

It’s been so long since I have blogged that I have not been sure how to get back into it. It seems so disingenuous to tell all of you how much I wanted to die and then six months later come back with a review for an obstacle course race (which is what I did). It is not like me to act as if nothing ever happened. And those that have been following me deserve better than that.

I think that’s the hard part about being a storyteller and dealing with depression. The stories I have to tell about my illness will likely hurt those who have helped me to heal. It’s not because I want to hurt them – nothing could be further from the truth. Rather, it’s just the rehashing and re-opening of wounds that might cause pain. The thing is that these stories, as painful as they might be, they need to be told. They are the tattered pieces of roadmaps that might guide you in loving and supporting someone with depression. That is so important to me. And I can only hope that those who have been with me through all things awful and good will understand the need for transparency.

All too often though, the stories are not told out of fear. Fear of shame, angering or hurting others, losing even more than we have already lost. The idea of losing more than I have so far, it terrifies me. Because what I have left, I care for it so deeply and cling to it, not as if it is, but knowing it is life itself. I’ve been very open with my struggle but I have chosen to be vague about how my illness has effected relationships with others. I have been very, very lucky that once I spoke up about needing help, people listened. I was fortunate that I did not alienate people when I withdrew. If anything, once I spoke up, I strengthened relationships that had been struggling due to my inability to reach out to those that love me.

Chances are that if you spoke up, you’d have the same experience. So speak up! SAY SOMETHING!

And that is what I will preach to you and continue to preach to you even in spite of something revolting that happened to me a few weeks ago. Something that was so gross that I couldn’t not talk about it.

Please bear with me while I give you some backstory.

It got worse and worse and worse. And I tried to be tolerant. Then I got fed up. Then I blocked her on all points, including my phone, and the harassment continued through her emailing, texting, and messaging others about me. Then I got annoyed.

The thing is that I know myself really, really well. If I’m being an asshole, I know I am being an asshole and I am generally doing it on purpose. Despite the fury I can unleash on a person, I am very sensitive and sensitive to others. Basically what I’m saying is, that if you want to project on me, go ahead. But I know this game really well and I won’t let you get away with it. This is otherwise known as psychology 101. And as much as I want to preach tolerance to those who are so very obviously mentally ill, I will not be Saint Kelly, Martyr of those that choose to forgo counseling and medication.

So you can imagine that when this person chose to mock my depression and history of suicidal thoughts, I was absolutely done with her fuckery.

I went from bemused and annoyed to fucking pissed.

It is never a good idea to let me reach the level of ‘fucking pissed’.

If you know anything about me, you know that I have an amazing sense of humor. I find the most off-color, offense, and sickest things funny. I don’t guffaw about them behind closed doors, or giggle coquettishly with my hand covering my mouth and batting my eyelashes. I am not embarassed or ashamed by life, and even sometimes death. Both are painful, searing and sometimes downright funny.

I mean, really, people are ridiculous and fucked up. And if you can’t find the humor in a potato committing suicide via a potato peeler…

then I would present to you that you are seriously and abundantly uptight.

And the writer in me (half-assed as I may be) finds this hilarious

(in fact, tonight when my husband came upon me writing this post he pointed to the comic, seeing it on my screen – but not yet reading it – he saw a couple and he said ‘look! that’s you and me!’ I found it fucking hilarious. He didn’t realize. And that made it comically perfect in the context of this topic.)

When I think of death and life and the ridiculously short amount of time we have to experience so much that this world has to offer, I can’t help but roll my eyes and say

For as much as life can be amazing and joyful, it is equally torturous, and painful, inexplicably overwhelming. Crushing to the point that some mornings I wake up and I simply cannot deal.

As I have shared in previous posts, I have dealt with depression my entire life. I can remember bouts of depression as early as six or seven years old.

I recall feelings of worthlessness before I even knew what my worth meant to the world. I remember wanting to kill myself in the fourth grade. I was nine years old.

I am chronically and clinically depressed. I am the face of mental illness.

#truestory #atleast300daysayear

However, my mental illness is as much my personality as it is my disorder. It does not mean that I am ‘crazy’, unforgivable, unlovable, or even unlikable. Yes, there are people that think those things about me. I am okay with this because admittedly, and frankly, I have a somewhat abrasive personality. I am bossy, a slacker, unreliable to a somewhat annoying level; and to a degree, eccentric, pushy, mouthy, whiney, opinionated, acerbic, tortured and unabashed. However, at my core I am a good person and despite all of my faults, I have the confidence to know that my good traits and actions shine through.

(There are lots of examples but in deference of revealing my unappealing narcissism, I will impart my good traits for you to assume. Just know that I’m pretty fucking awesome. At least 400 people on Facebook agree!)

Anyway, after some many weeks of quiet, suddenly Team X assumed a wrong-doing on my part after someone left a comment on her blog. (I pinky promise, cross my heart and hope to die that I didn’t leave said comment. I have not and will never comment anonymously on anything). Team X set forth a Twitter war. And I was all ‘GAME ON, MOTHER FUCKER!’ until she chose to make light of my depression and bout with suicidal thoughts.

First of all, I am unsure of how my confessions of soul-shattering sadness have anything to do with my integrity and honesty. Perhaps because I didn’t follow through with driving my car into a dump truck on the highway in order to kill myself and my in-utero child? That’s some real compassion being represented there, I tell ya.

Second, like I said, I know who I am. I am very much aware of my faults and my endearing points. I know very much who I am, where I’ve been and who I will continue to be, in spite of criticism. So these words don’t hurt me. Especially since this person could not even get her facts right. I was suicidal over the fall and winter of 2013. I did not relay my story to her – the story she attempted to betray and use against me – until February of 2014. But I digress….

Her words do not hurt me.

But her attempt at mocking and shaming is not any less disgusting and troubling to me.

What does concern me, what makes my heart ache to it’s core, is the idea of the numerous people within our blogging community that saw her deliberate scorn over my illness (that is no more my fault than catching common cold). Her comments make me fear for the people that were toeing the threshold of asking for help but feared the potential mockery for doing so. The people that desperately need any ounce of kindness to make it through tomorrow but are fearful of judgement and ridicule.

Let me say this loud and clear to those of you reading:

Whether we have had even an ounce of animosity or perhaps even we are the best of friends, or maybe I don’t know you at all; I will be your sounding board. I will be your soft place to land. I will absorb your pain without malice in my heart and I will guard your pain and secrets as if they were my own. I will protect your heart, your feelings, your fear, as if they are my children.

To those that doubt me, I invite you to challenge my fortitude. Because I would sooner die than mock your struggle with mental illness. (Unless of course you want to be an unrepentant asshole. Then you get what you get. Because no one deserves to be abused and you aren’t allowed to abuse others just because you feel shitty.)

And I invite you to tell your story…I invite you to #saysomething.

Our silence with this struggle as victims, and this struggle as witnesess of mental illness, it means nothing without our testament. Without each other, we will never rise out of the darkness and the shame.

If you’ve ever needed help or been in the position of wanting to give help, I would like to encourage each of you to tell your story. What would you like people to know about your struggle? How can someone help?

If you would like to offer yourself as a source of support, feel free to leave your contact info of choice in the comments below. If you need support, reach out to the person that you feel a connection to.

Do you have a story to tell and would like some anonymity? I would be honored to publish your story here; you can email me at kjopson@gmail.com

Where ever you stand on the plain of mental illness, speak up, #saysomething. Don’t give up on us, we need you, and we need you to help us break through. Together we will create the light to lead others out of darkness.

Over the last two years I’ve had a love/hate relationship with running.

Mostly hate.

In my head I want to run. I want to plod my way through miles upon miles of asphalt. I want to have another moment when I happen upon a landscape that strikes me mute at the beauty that is unfolding before me with every step. I want my soul to be invigorated by achievements that bring on crippling joint pain that is silenced by the glint of a shiny finisher’s medal.

And then I remember how I want to throw myself into oncoming traffic because I am so fucking bored.

Despite my boredom, I don’t completely hate running. In fact, I love taking off in a sprint (or as close to a sprint as I can manage) and galloping along…until my throat seizes and I’m cursing my lead-lined sneakers. When I became bored of running, yet knew that I couldn’t give it up, I had to reinvent what I thought I was capable of accomplishing.

Enter, the obstacle race.

Y’all, I am a girly girl. I don’t like the sand at the beach, I don’t like dirt under my fingernails. Sweat? I really hope you are kidding. However, I LOVE tearing it up on an obstacle course. No, I’m not the stealthiest, strongest, most cunning, or even the least whiny on the course. But I’ll wade through mud (and possibly eat some of it), climb impossibly tall barricades as I quiver over my fear of heights, crawl on my belly under barbed wire, dive into ice water, and even jump over fire for that precious finisher’s medal and some bragging rights.

The only thing that scares me and gets my adrenaline pumping more than an OCR is a trip to NYC.

So how can I up the ante on an OCR? By doing one in NYC, of course!

I’ll be running the Men’s Health URBANATHLON Sprint on October 25th and I want you to join me! Use the code FIT at checkout and save 20% on your entry fee. The Sprint offers four and a half miles and 10 obstacles, and the Classic is ten miles and 15 obstacles through Queens. Climb over buses and under compact cars. Traverse walls and tires, jump barricades, and climb stairs. There’s no better place to prove what you are made of than New York City!

After you’ve proven that the mean streets of NYC can’t bring you down, stick around for the Urbanathalon Festival.

Enjoy music and a post-race snack from the food trucks, grab your complimentary beer in the beer garden, and check out the wares and samples from the generous event sponsors!

Come join me and afterward we’ll get a schmeer, or go to the deli, or something else that is pathetically touristy.

Guys. Everyone is FREAKING THE FUCK OUT over the new Facebook messenger app.

The newest app updates disable messenger within the Facebook app, forcing you to download the Facebook Messenger app. I will grant you that it is a battery killa and that needs to change. But as usual, the internetz has devolved into a puddle of muppet-like arm-waving, and ravings about privacy because this new app requests access to your microphone so that it can hear your surroundings.

Or maybe Zuck really needs an awesome holiday cookie recipe and wants to listen in when you call your mom.

First of all, you are using a free social networking platform. Despite your ideals of what should be, when you are using a powerful and FREE platform, you are not entitled to much – especially privacy. (And lets not even get into Facebook’s recent experiment in emotional manipulation.)

So let’s stop pretending that Facebook owes us any level of privacy or customer service. That’s just silly. Every time you Like, Post, or Share, you are being bought and sold by a company that basically prints their own money. They really don’t care about your privacy as long as their printer never runs out of ink or paper.

Sorry.

Second, the microphone function is OPT IN ONLY.

I repeat:

OPT IN ONLY

That means Facebook will not randomly turn on your microphone. It will ASK for access to your microphone.

If you have previously granted access to the microphone or have updated the app and mistakenly granted access, below are instructions on how to disable the microphone function on an iPhone (as well as giving it access to your contacts).

Step #6a: If you are extra paranoid, just don’t take the fucking phone into your bedroom or bathroom.

Can we stop it with this nonsense now?

And even if you have granted access and you are curious enough to try it out, you can turn it off whenever you want by tapping the fucking sound bar icon so it turns gray.

Seriously people, familiarize yourself with the technology you are using. People that don’t understand basics are the people that cause a frenzy because they don’t understand what they are dealing with. Do you really want to be that person? Do you want to be the start of the zombie apocalypse? Because this is how this shit starts.

Listen, I don’t completely blame you for being technologically declined. Some people just aren’t in that frame of mind. If we are being honest though, most choose to go on auto-pilot and let the technology do the work for them. And that kind of speaks to where our society is at right now, doesn’t it? That, however, is a post for another day.

I will say that Facebook and any of its apps are really the only app I feel like we need to be wary of. I mean come on, if we are to believe the Hollywood history, Zuck stole the idea and coding for his Facebook empire. Its an empire built on the backs of schmucks like you and me. Zuck is not to be trusted. Moreover, I think we need to be more wary of our own apathy. There is no doubt that Facebook takes liberties and it preys on people’s unfamiliarity with the technology they are using. On one hand, its super shady. On the other hand, its a smart business model. Sucks but its just how it works.

Long story short: Suck it up, Buttercup. This is the price we pay to play the game that is Facebook.

And turn off your microphone. Because even Zuck doesn’t want to hear you having sex.

Last week I went to a new conference, Blogger Bash, in NYC. I came home with lots of goodies, but the one I was most excited about was the Wubble Ball. Izzy has been bugging me for this thing ever since she saw the commercial a few weeks ago. When I was offered a chance to take one home for review, I flipped! Honestly, I think I was more excited about this ball than her.

I thought for the ball would pop as we blew it up with the battery operated air pump. It gets so thin and transparent and it inflates to 3 feet. But the ball is made from a unique thermo-stretch material makes it squishy, strong and incredibly lightweight. Kids can kick it, slam it, throw it, bounce it, smoosh it and smash it.

The idea of trying to keep a 3 foot wide ball in my house was kind of a turn-off. So it was really nice to discover that the ball could be deflated and blown up again.

Unfortunately the Wubble has a few downfalls. I had some trouble with the inflation kit.

I couldn’t seem to get the cone part into the ball correctly and then insert the second pump part, the air nozzle. I chose to bypass the cone and push the air nozzle into the ball by itself. I had a lot more success that way than per the instructions.

The second problem we had was our Wubble popped.

I’m not sure what happened to make it split but we were super bummed when it did. Thankfully the Wubble Bubble Ball has a Lifetime Replacement Guarantee! All we have to do is cut off the embossed logo and send it back in the envelope the company provides in the package. Hopefully our next Wubble will last a little longer.

Even though our Wubble had a short life, I would totally buy another one. For the in-store price of $19.99, we got that back and then some in fun!

Disclosure: I received a Wubble Bubble Ball and compensation to take part in this review. All opinions are my own.

I’m starting Medifast again! I’ll be switching it up a little this time and doing some videos. I hope you will join me on the next leg of my journey!

*FTC Disclosure: Medifast provides their products for my personal use for free. I am not paid or compensated in any other way for mentioning their products. All thoughts written here are mine. I love complaining so I would tell you if I didn’t like something in the program.

Medifast products and the Medifast Program are not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease or illness. Any medical improvements noted while on the program are related to weight loss in general, and not to Medifast products or programs.

These are some of the last maternity photos that will ever be taken of me. This is a bittersweet notion for me. I don’t think I can manage more than two children. However, the idea of never being pregnant again – the pure sweetness of holding a newly born infant, or the feeling of peace you feel when they take their first breath and cry – it makes me wistful and daydreamy about having more babies.

And then I remember that I’ve been up since 330am because my little boy thought that was a good time to start the day.

The day our son was born was somewhat fateful in that my husband decided to play hooky from work that morning. I woke up around 530am after a night of fitful sleep and crampy feelings in my back. When I stood up to get out of bed, there was a noticeable trickle. Wide-eyed, cautious, and in a state of disbelief, I went into the bathroom to assess the situation.

Okay, wait. Do I really need to give the TMI warning here? Because if you know anything about me by now, I love telling a gross story.

So I went into the bathroom to check things out. And I figured I had just had an accident – as very pregnant ladies are prone to doing. Okay, okay, as I was prone to doing.

Several times a day.

Whatever.

Anyway, I had lost my mucus plug about two weeks prior. (Go ahead and google that. I DARE YOU.) It was disgusting.

And then it grew back.

I know it grew back because it fell out AGAIN two weeks later. And it was just as disgusting as the first time. But still, no baby. So jump forward to the morning of April 25th, I’m in the bathroom, check out the situation below, and not only is there clear fluid but a little blood. I was convinced that my water had broken and frantically ran around the house packing up the hospital bag that I was supposed to have packed the first time I lost my mucus plug.

And even though I was convinced that my water had broken and it was just a slow leak, I was not convinced that I was in labor. Or about to have a baby. Ever.

So I went to work.

Now calm yourself. I wasn’t having any contractions, my cramping from overnight had subsided, and I wasn’t leaking from my lady parts like a broken dam. I knew I’d be okay until 830, when it just so happened I had a pre-scheduled check-up.

When I got there I let my doctor know that I thought my water broke. She didn’t believe me. I could tell. And in my head I was all ‘Look I like you but I’m pretty sure I’m having a baby today. So you are stupid.’

Of course I didn’t say that. I was too busy writhing in pain while she jammed her arm up to her elbow into my vagina and cervix and tickled the bottom of my lungs. We discovered that the amniotic sac was intact and fluid tests confirmed this fact. Turns out I just had a very ‘ripe’ (ew) and goopy (ugh) cervix.

She assured me that I was not having a baby today. Despite being 39 weeks and 6 days pregnant, she seemed convinced that we’d end up with an induction at 41 weeks. I was only three centimeters dilated and 70% effaced. After she removed her hand from the deepest depths of my torso, she sent me on my way with instructions to call if anything changed. She also told me to go home and have lots of sex with my husband.

That did not happen. Thirty nine weeks and six days, people. The only romance I was interested in was one with the ice cream in my freezer.

So I went back to work and for about two hours things were fine. I had decided the doctor was right, nothing was going to happen and I started planning my weekend. Then I had to poop.

Well…I thought I had to poop.

Okay, here’s the thing – I was a little backed up. Between the naturally occurring constipation that happens in the end stages of pregnancy (thanks a lot progesterone), coupled with the fact that I was convinced I would poop too hard and end up birthing on the toilet where I work. I had not pooped in days. You see, one of my coworkers is a very enthusiastic Boy Scout troop leader and I was more than a little fearful that he’d be delivering my baby and using his teeth or some other McGuyver bullshit move with paperclips to cut and tie off the umbilical cord.

So you can understand my apprehension about pooping at work. I was feeling kinda….crappy…so when the feeling happened upon me again, work bathroom or not, I knew I had to try. Otherwise I might shit all over everyone in the delivery room.

Nothing.

I sat there forever, in pain, feeling like I really had to go and nothing was happening. I went back to my desk and the feeling went away.

And then it came back.

Try to poop.

Nada.

Now I know you are yelling at your screen right now about what an idiot I am. You are right. Because I went through this exact cycle for about couple of hours. Then I started consulting with friends, hoping they would tell me that I just needed to eat more fiber. Deny, deny, deny!

Here’s another thing you have to remember: I don’t know what a natural labor feels like. I also forgot what a lot of the pains felt like because it had been so long between babies. I was induced with Izzy and everything happened all at once. There was no easing into it, there was no guessing. It was straight up baby is coming out now! As a result, I doubted my ability to asses my pain level and whether or not I was having real contractions.

Around 1150am I told my friend Steph that I thought I might be having contractions.

I am a delicate flower.

Of course I started googling because I needed to know if I really just needed to poop or if I was going to have a baby. Up to this point I had largely avoided reading anything about labor. I couldn’t do it. I have a pretty good idea of how that whole system works down there. I didn’t want to muddy things up and create more anxiety by reading about horror stories or fourth degree tears.

As I had anticipated, googling did nothing to calm my nerves.

How have I not been invited to have an audience with the Queen of England yet?

Friends encouraged me to download an app and start timing the pains. At this point the contractions were about 14 minutes apart and lasting about a minute. I was starting to get really scared. Mostly that I would deliver my baby at work.

This was the most convincing argument that I needed to leave:

I continued to whine and moan to a few of friends for the next couple of hours, attempting to make it to the end of the work day (I get out at 3pm). I know you think I am insane – but I didn’t want to start the maternity leave clock any sooner than I had to. I wanted to spend every day of my six weeks at home with a real live baby – not waiting for a baby. My friends all repeatedly reminded me that I did not want to have this baby at work. I resisted the urge to whine and moan about it on Facebook, as I am prone to do about most things in my life. I knew the only thing that would make this worse was 300 people messaging me to check in. Not that it wouldn’t be appreciated – but I was worried I really did just have to poop and I wasn’t actually in labor.

“Hey kelly, how are you coming along? you feel okay?”“oh yeah, i’m fine now. I dropped the kids off at the pool. so yeah…i’m cool now.”

awkward.

I spent the next couple of hours timing contractions (that I still did not believe were contractions) and hiding behind my computer screen hoping that my coworker did not notice the look of sheer panic on my face.

The clock finally hit 3pm and for being 39 weeks and 6 days pregnant, and in active labor, I moved surprisingly quickly to the parking lot and into my car. Not at all to my surprise, as soon as I got in the car to head home, everything stopped happening. I was pretty happy about this because I didn’t want to have a contraction and drive off the road, or birth my baby in the back of my car. Because if I’m being honest, my car is pretty filthy. I was also happy (read: delusional) that I was going to get to carry on with my weekend plans. I had planned to attend the annual Mom Mixer that is hosted by the awesome Whitney and Colleen. I love this event because it’s such a great opportunity to get together with local bloggers. But it was not meant to be.

Twenty minutes later when I walked in the door to my house, I made a beeline for the bathroom. Because, you know, poop. And I totally pooped. I POOPED! and it was glorious. Then it was followed up by a mind-bending contraction. Hunched over, I waddled to my bedroom, hoping to take a nap before things really started happening. That was not meant to be either.

As I lay in bed, in as close to the fetal position I could get, Christian and Izzy came in to take turns rubbing my back and trying to comfort me. Around 4pm I told Christian that he needed to call my parents to come get Izzy and the dog.

There was no denying any of this anymore; I was having a baby today. Poor Izzy, she must have been so scared. She is such a sweetheart and kept hugging me and reassuring me that I was going to be okay.

Thankfully my father was nearby and arrived a little after 4pm to retrieve Izzy and Tuna and lock up the house. At this point my contractions were 3-4 minutes apart. I may have waited just a tad too long to make the call. The hospital is fifteen minutes from my house. However, despite my protesting and chiding, my husband’s panicked driving made it more like a 5 minute trip…even if in ‘contraction time’ it felt like an hour.

We spent roughly three hours in triage between intake procedures and waiting for room in labor and delivery. It was the longest three hours of my life. The contractions were steadily getting closer together and infinitely more painful. We also discovered that the baby had not dropped (just like Izzy) which compounded my pain. I was more than ready to get my epidural but couldn’t have it until I was in a room. The worst part of the intake is when they separated me from Christian and wheeled me into a private office. I had no clue what was happening and was about 30 seconds from losing my shit. The intake admin started asking me where I live. Is it a house, apartment, trailer, fox den in a field? (Seriously the questions about my dwelling went on forever.) Does the baby have a place to sleep? The first of many reminders that co-sleeping is supposedly only for people that want their babies to die. Are we married? How often do we argue? Did I feel safe?

HOLY SHIT. Look, I get it. They separate you so that you will give honest answers in case you are being abused. But when I am having to breathe and answer these questions through contractions, I began to worry for the admin’s safety. If a person is in active labor, could we perhaps do this after the tiny human is removed from the body?

The rest of the evening is kind of blurry. I remember that my L&D nurse, Ruth, was an incredibly sweet and patient woman. Especially since I was asking about the epi every few minutes since we met. I remember finally getting an epi from a not-that-friendly anesthesiologist. It didn’t help that I had a contraction as he was putting the needle in my back. I did my best not to squirm but I am sure that I did. At some point my water bag was manually broken and we were told that there was quite a bit of meconium in the fluids. This is always cause for concern but I wasn’t terribly worried because the same thing happened to Izzy. I foolishly thought we’d have a repeat of the good fortune that it would be no big deal. Unfortunately we were later told it was quite a large amount and I would not get to hold him right away.

Around 830 I was feeling the epi I had been checked by the doctor just a few minutes earlier and she said she expected a baby before 10pm. So I texted my friends Stephanie, Melinda, and Robin to let them know the baby would be here soon and they were welcome to visit. Melinda had previously asked if she could be present for the birth. She had always wanted to see a birth but always missed her opportunities. I texted her saying I knew it was late and I understood if she didn’t want to come out to the hospital. The next text I received from her said ‘I’m in the car.’

And she showed up in these:

I love my friends. The epi was working but I was still feeling the pressure from the baby moving down. I was in so much pain and she had me laughing so much. Robin couldn’t make it because I didn’t alert anyone that I was in labor earlier and she started her Friday early and got into the Blue Moon. I was jealous. My bestie Steph was on her way – unfortunately she wouldn’t make it in time.

Our son was born at 947pm after only 7 minutes of pushing…and a few F bombs. I’m not even ashamed. That shit hurt. Freaking big-headed baby.

I distinctly remember yelling ‘I can’t! He’s fucking tearing me in half!’ and Melinda yelling at me that I didn’t have a choice, I had to keep pushing. Then everyone took her cue and started yelling at me.

I am also pretty sure I pooped while pushing. Even though no one will tell me the truth.

They whisked him away to the warmer to clean him up and check all of his vitals. Then the nurse laid him on my chest so that Christian could cut the remainder of the cord. It was just then that Steph came in the room and demanded to know why I couldn’t have just held him in a little longer.

I tried, Steph. I tried.

Finally after all the chaos died down, I was able to snuggle with the baby I’d waited for so long. The one we weren’t sure we’d have.

It was one of the most precious moments of my life.

This birth was so different than Izzy’s. With her, I was terrified. I was a new mom, with all of the new mom fears. I was so disconnected from the whole process that she and I did not bond right away. With our daughter, the atmosphere was stressed and heavy with fear. As a result, that deep, awe-inspiring love you have for a new baby grew over the weeks that followed. I always felt a little guilty about that.

This time, being surrounded by some of my closest friends, laughing and reminiscing as we waited, hearing their voices push me through the pain, and then watching my husband weep with pride and relief, the peace it brought me allowed me to connect with my son right away.

We are complete.

But it would not last.

Initially we thought we had an especially vocal baby. He cooed a lot and made this cute grunting noises, especially when nursing. As the night wore on, the grunting became so excessive that I became concerned. This little bugger would stop grunting every time a nurse or doctor came into the room, so I had to catch it on video. The on-call pediatrician immediately started transfer to the NICU. I tried to stay cool but inside I was quietly freaking out. The pediatrician believed he may have gotten meconium in his lungs.

The next few days were spent watching and waiting. He was treated with antibiotics, x-rayed, and on and off forced air. I tried to remain positive, knowing that he was the healthiest baby in the NICU. While we were frustrated with lack of definitive answers as to whether there was a problem or not, I stayed focused that he would only be in the hospital for a short time. I reasoned with myself that this was for the best. He would get the preventative care he (may or may not) need, I’d get a full night’s sleep at home, and it would make the transition for Izzy easier. She could get used to the idea of a new baby before we actually brought him home.

As much as I tried to stay strong, the leaving was so hard. I gave birth on Friday and was discharged on Sunday morning. Our son would spend four full days in the NICU before coming home late Tuesday. A knick on the surface of lifetime we would have with him but difficult all the same.

The days would drag as I mentally willed the clock and doctors to move faster, give us some news. The time was a true test of our patience because all we could do was let everyone do their jobs. This was beyond our control. I don’t know how other parents do it.

Finally, on April 29th, we got the news that seemed to take ages to receive. We were able to bring our baby home.

Archer C. BrownApril 25, 20149 pounds, 7 ounces

Completely amazing.

I’ve been gone for a while. I needed a break from…well, pretty much everything. I feel like I can’t jump back into this blog until I talk about where I’ve been. So this is the story of where I’ve been since I last posted five months ago. Actually, I’ve been writing this story for almost as long. So please forgive me if it seems a little off, or weird, or the time frames don’t make sense. This is basically five months of brain dump that I attempted to package into something that might border on coherent. And it’s not pretty…but the last two years haven’t been all that pretty either.

I’ve known for almost two years that I’ve needed help. I thought that I could manage on my own, that it would pass, that I was ungrateful, that I just needed to try harder to be happy. But some things you cannot accomplish on your own. Like a home in need of much repair, the longer I let this go, the more tools I needed to repair the problems. I wanted to write a flowery story about this seemingly infinite sadness that ends with me telling you that I am all better now. That there is, at the very least, a pinhole of light to strive for in this darkness. I enjoy telling stories that make people happy, give them hope, or at minimum, make them smile a little. That isn’t the way this story goes…not right now anyway.

Instead I’m going to tell you about how I’ve stopped being myself. How everything I present to people is actually a result of me standing outside of my own body and puppeteering my way through the motions of life. The past two years have been a slow but steady decline of depression and anxiety. A variety of issues brought on mostly by bad circumstances but made worse by chemical imbalance. Fatigue, sadness, loneliness, unrealistic and heightened expectations of myself and others, insomnia, agitation, increased impatience (but let’s be honest, I’m not that patient to begin with), hopelessness, panic attacks over simple, everyday tasks, complete inability to fulfill commitments to myself and others, falling in and out of numbness. I have become an expert at avoiding, shutting down, and finding negativity in even happiest moments.

It comes and goes. Some days are dark and hazy; others were not brighter but the haze less opaque. No day ever has full light and just as I’d start to feel hopeful and awake, the darkness would come again. I feel very much like a spectator in life. I’m watching everyone around me grow and flourish. I feel like a small tree in their big forest and they were squelching all of the light that I was so desperately reaching for.

Was.

Because I am no longer trying to reach but simply maintain. Every day I become more shriveled and weak.

I am insignificant.

I am needy.

I am a parasite.

I am a burden.

I am tired.

Tired of pretending to be happy – or at the very least, pretending to be okay. I am tired of crying every day, at times literally all day. I am tired of pushing back the tears and the lump in my throat so I don’t make you uncomfortable. I am tired of pretending to enjoy the company of others. Truthfully, I don’t enjoy much – I’m just really good at faking it. I continue to forcibly participate in life but I am simply here…at least my physical self is here. I am not making memories with my husband and child and friends. I am disconnected. I am angry with myself for creating these anchors in my life that kept me from leaving, that make me continue to care enough to make an effort. More than anything, I am angry with myself for creating this burden for them.

I have stopped smiling.

I have stopped laughing.

I have stopped speaking unless I needed to speak.

I could almost stop breathing if it were not for the natural will of my body to force me to gasp for air.

I have to remind myself to react to others; feign interest and emotion for their sake. Don’t complain. Don’t be a downer. Don’t be a burden.

It takes 26 muscles to smile and 62 to frown. Unless you are depressed. Then the frowning simply happens and the smiling requires the whole effort of your spirit, mind, and body. It is exhausting.

For the few that I’ve allowed to see a tiny piece of my pain, I am further exhausted by their platitudes of everything will be okay, you just have to look on the bright side, and sometimes even their simple act of listening. And I hate how ungrateful that sounds. It’s not that the efforts and kind words are not appreciated, they are. But I’ve wanted, needed, just one person to attempt to rescue me. Come take me away somewhere and let me scream and cry and throw things and hurt with me until it didn’t hurt anymore.

But how do you ask for that? I won’t ask for it. It’s not who I am. And don’t tell me its always been available to me as if I’d be asking to simply borrow a cup of sugar.

It was at my first prenatal appointment that I truly realized that I had let this go too far. I was not having a good day. I wasn’t even excited about hearing the baby’s heartbeat – though I’d become pretty good at faking the excitement.

I was filling out a battery of the usual paperwork when I got to a form about emotional health. It was a quiz that ran on a scale of 1-10. These are a handful of questions from the worksheet:

Can you find humor in a situation?

How often do you feel down, depressed or hopeless?

How often do you have trouble sleeping?

How often do you feel badly about yourself or that you are a disappointment to others?

10.

10.

10.

10.

Then the question came that I’d been refusing to ask myself for months.

How often do you think about harming yourself or ending your life?

There was no number designation that was appropriate for this question. Ten was not a big enough number. I wrote ‘yes’ and broke down in the waiting room.

The truth is that I had spent at least the last six months, if not longer, fantasizing about ways to die. I thought about it everywhere. At work, at the movies, while talking and laughing with you, in the car, in my bed, everywhere and nearly every minute of the day. I could ‘get lost’ on a run, step off the curb at the precise wrong moment, accidentally rear-end or cut off a dump truck at a high rate of speed. In the morning when I showered, I wondered how difficult it would be to dismantle a disposable shaving razor. What kind of accident could I have that would keep my family from experiencing the pain that comes from living with suicide. Or would they simply be relieved that this was finally over? I just wanted to fade away. I simply wanted to be gone. No muss, no fuss. Just erase me.

My doctor listened and let me cry over everything and nothing and she hugged me and told me we’d fix it. Even now I don’t fully believe that we can. We discussed my options – of which there really were none. Most of my depression stems from a situational problem that I cannot resolve in the foreseeable future. She suggested medication and in my desperation, and despite my objection to medications during pregnancy (including aspirin), with slumped shoulders and a defeated spirit, I agreed.

She explained that the benefit of taking the medication was much higher than the risk of not taking it. In the moment I didn’t believe her and immediately felt guilty, as if even the thought of medication meant I was sentencing this child to birth defects. But then I thought about the child I’d already left behind even if I was still physically present. That night I picked up a prescription for a low dose of Zoloft.

At 28 weeks, I’ve been on Zoloft for almost five months now. It has not been easy to take that tiny pill every evening. It is a pill filled with regret, guilt and worry over what it might be doing to our baby because I am not smart enough, strong enough, rational enough, or some other shortcoming enough to just be happier. I wish I could tell you that it has lifted the haze. I wish I could tell you that I no longer have those thoughts as I pass a big truck on the highway.

The truth is that the medication has only made it different. The tears are fewer and farther between but the sadness is still there. The thoughts of hurting myself only come on the really bad days and can often be pushed away. When I’m around others I can almost always find a way to be joyful – even if I have to expend a huge amount of energy pushing back the darkness in order to get through the moment. But it is all still very exhausting and very real. I’m scared that I won’t ever remember how to actually be happy – if it’s even possible. I’m worried that this fog has already erased who I really am. There is a sense of loss and mourning for my lost self that is difficult to explain.

Some people might find all of this very confusing. If you are friends with me in real life or on Facebook, you probably won’t see much out of the ordinary. I still crack jokes, I converse with others, I do everything that seems normal. More often than not, it’s simply a desperate attempt to not lose my grip on what is left of a lifeline. Just goes to show that you never really know what is happening with people. But this behavior also gives me hope that I’m still lurking in there.

Being here is better. I know this in my rational brain and in my heart. And I often ask myself what happens if I get too tired to go on? What happens if I lose my grip? There’s no way to know…but I’m going to take my chances. Because the benefit of trying makes the risks of ‘what if’ worthwhile. I’m going to find me again.

Me and running – we kinda broke up for a little while. Me and running broke up so bad that I even gave it back the friendship bracelet made out of safety pins from old bibs.

Ask me to go running – or pretty much any physical activity, and this is the reaction you’d probably get:

I couldn’t put my finger on it but the motivation just hasn’t been there. But then this beautiful darling showed up on my doorstep.

What has been missing is visual results. Even though I’ve gained back some weight after reaching my goal last year, my body looks relatively the same. I used to get a lot of gratification from watching my body constantly change. Now that I don’t have as much to lose to get back to goal, I needed to find a new source of visual confirmation that I was (or wasn’t) working hard enough.

The first time I used the Polar RC3GPS, this is the readout I got when I synced my monitor to their Polar Personal Trainer site.

I was all “C’mere visual confirmation. I’mma snuggle you.” And then I rolled all over the monitor just like this:

Yeah. Let’s do that again.

Yeah! Go me!

I’ve totally found my motivation again.

I’ve tried out a few activity tracking tools and apps in the past. Most of them counted my steps, some tracked my route, and some told me a rough idea of the calories I burned (and either grossly under or overestimated that number). With all of the money I wasted on those things, I could have purchased the Polar RC3GPS twice over and I would have gotten all of the above and then some.

The Polar RC3GPS not only tracks and analyzes your activity and gives you a visual of all the hard work you are doing; but the Polar Personal Trainer site will help you build a training program to help you meet your goals:

I’ll be honest, the first few uses of this device were a bit rough. I was used to devices that were much more simplistic. In the beginning it was a little bit of information overload. But hey, that is what the user manual is for, right? Around my third use, I had this device down pat. So here’s some loves, and not so loves about the Polar RC3GPS:

PRO: The chest strap is comfortable. No, really! It’s made of a very soft elastic and has a bra-strap style slider for easy adjustment. And the strap gets very long. So if you are a bigger person, no worries, it will fit!

CON: I think that the clip that secures the strap is a little weak. It’s made out of very durable metal (steel?). Unfortunately though, it doesn’t seem to have enough ‘hook’ to it. There were a few times, during very vigorous activity, that the clip would come undone. I resolved this issue by tightening the strap to increase the tension on the hook. That seems to have resolved the problem for me but I’d love to see a more secure hook.

CON: A little overwhelming for an unexperienced user.

PRO: That you will get over it when you see all the cool stuff that it does! Seriously. Don’t be scared. It doesn’t hurt…unless you want it to. And then watch those calories BURN! BURN! BURN!Also they have this handy video for new users:

CON: The app that accompanies the product does not work with an iPhone 4, only 4s and 5. I had the super sadz over this. Dear Polar: At&t is selling the iPhone 4 for 99 cents. For real. They are practically forcing people to use them. Please make your app compatible with the 4 and my heart rate will increase ten-fold and I will burn more calories and super love your product more. LYLAS!

PRO: I can totally make do with the website until you get around to fulfilling the above request. Because the website, seriously, it kicks ass.

My verdict: Worth every flippin’ penny. Not only am I back to working out regularly, I’m working harder than ever. Between running and CrossFit Bootcamp, I’ve given this device a run for it’s money and it has not disappointed me yet. It tracks my mileage, heart rate, and calories accurately. It grades my performance in comparison to previous workouts. It allows for tracking of a variety of sports – not just running. And my favorite part by far is the amazing logs on the website and the personalized training plans.

So who wants to go burn 700 calories at CrossFit with me?

I received the Polar RC3GPS as part of a sponsored campaign with FitFluential.All opinions and experiences are my own.

If you’d like to buy this great running GPS click ::here:: and use code: “fitfluential” during checkout for a 25% discount! This discount is valid only on the RC3 GPS and will expire on 8/31.